In So Many Words
by mazarin
Summary: Wine and a post-case high lead to some an interesting conversation and even more of an interesting night. Slash.


The first bottle of 1977 vintage cabernet goes down quickly, the wine barely a kiss of taste against his tongue.

The second is savored, warm and rich and full in his mouth.

By the time the third is opened, John is heavy and boneless in his chair, and the world is a really, really wonderful place indeed.

"Montevertine Le Pergole Torta," Sherlock slurs, and lifts his glass in a mock toast. "Better than another set of useless cufflinks, though Lestrade was nudging me for the next pair that comes my way."

John laughs, lifts his glass and examines the wine in the firelight. Ruby red and beautifully complex, and, unfortunately, almost gone. He glances covetously at Sherlock's almost full glass, and contemplates throwing caution to the wind and opening the fourth, the one they'd decided to save for a special occasion.

Fuck it, he thinks as he reaches for the corkscrew. After that case, they deserve it.

* * *

Sherlock is exuberant in his drunkenness, balanced on a chair explaining the difference in ligature marks between a person being hanged and someone hanging themselves. John laughs at his ridiculous arm-waving and watches Sherlock's face grow more and more flushed, whether from the wine or the fire John can't tell. His profile as he turns toward the light is breathtaking, edged in sharp shimmering light, the graceful line of his neck so incredibly enticing John shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

He needs to get a glass or three of water or he's going to pay dearly for this night tomorrow with a pounding headache and sticky mouth, so he stands up abruptly and wishes he hadn't. The floor seems to slope a little as he makes the hairpin turn from his chair toward the kitchen and one step too far in one direction means he ends up flat on his arse on the floor, shaking with laughter and rubbing his hip.

"Oh shite, oh fuck," he slurs between gasps and giggles. "My mates and I, this is what we'd call a tie-down night."

Sherlock steps down from the arms of his chair, his gait exaggerated and loose-limbed but still confident and sure. He leans over John, trying to look concerned but laughter lurks behind his eyes. "A what night?"

John rolls to the side, rubs his hip. "A tie-down night. The kind of night you'd likely wake up in the morning tied down to a bed and missing your trousers."

Sherlock hooks his hands under John's arm, tries to pull him up. "Have many of those, did you?" he says, and the momentum of pulling John from the floor sends him backwards toward the fire. John flashes his hand out to catch Sherlock's elbow and hauls him back in hard enough that they slam together and instinctively intertwine.

"Yeah," John says, and can't seem to stop staring at Sherlock's bottom lip. "A fair few."

Sherlock's hand tightens on John's hip. "I bet you were an interesting experience in Uni."

"Not just Uni," John breathes, and oh, he's walking a dangerous line, now.

Sherlock quirks an interested eyebrow. "That so?"

John nods, and that tiny little spark of self-awareness that's still functioning thinks it might be a good plan to retreat now, because this is a mile past any line they'd edged up to before.

"I have handcuffs," Sherlock says, and there's a faint faraway look on his face and John's wine-soaked mind must be a bit slow on the uptake because he couldn't have meant—

"I assure you, that's exactly what I meant," Sherlock murmurs, and swiftly lowers his mouth to John's for a hard, searching, bruising kiss.

And that tiny little part of him that thought to retreat is suddenly a lot more on board with this entire idea. John fists his hand in Sherlock's shirt collar, pulls him close enough to feel his heartbeat against his chest, nips at Sherlock's lips and parts them to taste Sherlock's wine-sweetened mouth. John aches, tight against his trousers, and he can feel his own heartbeat pulsing in his throat just before Sherlock brushes a kiss against it.

John gasps. "Too drunk. And you don't. You _don't_, Sherlock."

"'M not. And who says I don't? I do," he says, and grinds against John, his cock hard and insistent. His "Come to my room" is more a demand than a request, and sexier than it should be.

Oh God, oh God, he should say no, he should, but Sherlock is intense and aroused and John hasn't been laid in months, too damn busy cocking about with Sherlock and brandishing a weapon with enthusiasm. Oh, fuck it. "Yes. Christ yes," he says, and the words are lost against Sherlock's mouth.

* * *

The wine and two glasses manage to make their way into the bedroom, snagged by Sherlock with one hand while he was pulling John along with the other. John buries his face against Sherlock's back and has his hands up Sherlock's shirt, making Sherlock squirm and laugh as he's trying to pour more wine.

"Here, oh fuck, here, take this," Sherlock says, and hands him a glass with a flourish. Some of the wine sloshes over the top and drips onto Sherlock's skin and John pounces, picks up Sherlock's hand and sucks the wine from his long, long fingers.

"That's more like it," John says. "Even better that way." Sherlock's grin is predatory as he pushes John against the bed, guides him down, down against the pillows until Sherlock can straddle his hips, the long hard line of John's cock under his arse.

"Fuck, Sherlock. I… I…" John stutters, and his breath is fast, deep, shuddering.

"How long has it been since you've fucked anyone?" Sherlock asks, and hooks a finger into John's collar, pulls his shirt open, buttons popping loose or off entirely, leaving it half off, hanging on by one cuff.

"A while. Ohhhh," John sighs, bucks up into Sherlock's arse, trying to get more sensation. "A few months. Why? You jealous?"

"Absolutely not." Sherlock reaches for the wine and dribbles it slowly, deliberately over John's chest, rivulets running down his sides and soaking the sheets. The contrast of cold wine against his hot skin is a goose bump-inducing shock, and Sherlock licks and sucks until John arches into the pressure of his mouth, into the teeth that are certainly leaving marks on his skin. Sherlock sighs and hums against John's chest, his thighs, and the sound and taste and smell of him wraps itself around John's senses, is exponentially emphasized by the alcohol and cascades along his nerves, setting them alight and tingling. Sherlock pulls back, takes a good look at his handiwork, and takes a swig directly from the bottle before holding it up to John's swollen mouth.

John sits up a little and draws the bottle between his lips and takes a deep pull, eyes on Sherlock the entire time. As Sherlock leans over him to put the wine back on the table, John clumsily grabs Sherlock's shirt, pulling him down into a deep, messy kiss.

The surprise makes Sherlock throw his arm out for balance, sweeping the bottle and goblets off of the table, the glass hitting the wood floor with a smash. "Should clean that up," John says between kisses. He pulls Sherlock's shirt out of his trousers, fumbles it open. Sucks and kisses and bites at Sherlock's collarbone, his throat, the purple skin rising to the surface almost immediately and Sherlock leans into it, greedy and unafraid.

"Don't care," Sherlock replies, and leans back to start unbuckling John's belt. Sherlock grins as he pulls John's trousers off, and before John can blink Sherlock produces a set of handcuffs from the drawer, locks a cuff around John's wrist and the other to the headboard.

"Oh holy fuck." John should be nervous, a wild-eyed, half-sloshed Sherlock without a shirt and covered in bite marks kneeling over his legs and looking ravenous. Instead the heat blooms in his groin, he can feel himself lengthen, thicken, get so impossibly hard he desperately hopes Sherlock gets his trousers off soon because he certainly can't do it himself.

Sherlock doesn't though, he just smirks before descending to John's chest and tracing his tongue around a nipple, and when he suddenly bites down the pain is sharp enough John cries out, twisting against the twin restraints of the handcuff around his wrist and Sherlock's knees around his hips.

"Oh, you do enjoy that, don't you?" Sherlock says with a dirty, lopsided grin, and bites sharply at John's other nipple. The pain melts into liquid heat and John aches, wants. He can't even speak, he only nods and desperately tries to use one hand to move Sherlock's thigh so he can get a leg around his hips. "Ah, not yet. Let's get these off first." John can barely keep his eyes open against the yes, yes, yes pounding in his brain, the throb desire in watching Sherlock undress, strip down until he's naked and gleaming in the lamplight. His cock is as gorgeous as the rest of him and when Sherlock crawls up his legs and kneels over his chest all John can do is open his mouth.

The drop of precome is bittersweet, the flutter of his tongue on Sherlock's frenulum makes him tremble, and John is pinned between Sherlock's groin and the wall and as Sherlock starts to fuck his mouth he sucks harder, swallows him down. Sherlock has his hands on the headboard, his teeth bared and his breath coming in sharp, quick pants; muscles in his arms flex with the thrust of his hips, a slick invasion that John begs for more of.

"Yes, fuck. Knew you'd like it like this." Sherlock gasps when John sucks him harder, then kneels back and slides down John's body to kiss him savagely, their mouths clashing hard, too hard, until John tastes blood. John's cuffed wrist is starting to burn but he barely cares, instead pushes his free hand between Sherlock's legs, tugs lightly on Sherlock's balls a moment before sliding further back to circle his hole and strain to get his finger inside.

"You seem to like it a little rough yourself," John says, and twists his finger a little, making Sherlock curse and jump. "More than you'd admit, I bet." John swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, licks away the blood and Sherlock stares, rapt, until he slowly lowers his head to touch his tongue the corner of John's mouth.

Time seems to slow down, stretch, as they stare at each other, Sherlock's lips stained with a tiny drop of blood.

Then John kisses him, hard, and turns over onto his knees, the handcuff twisting a lancing pain around his wrist. Sherlock draws him close, pulls his other arm behind his back.

"All right?" Sherlock whispers against John's ear and he nods. Sherlock dips to the side and John can hear the slide of a drawer before Sherlock slicks him with lube, pressing in and rubbing with this thumb, his breath hot and heavy on John's back.

"Just get your dick in me," John breathes and shifts his knees, trying to lift his hips enough to accommodate Sherlock's long legs until Sherlock urges him up, keeping his free wrist behind his back and tucking his own knees behind John's. John grins at the ingeniousness of the position; when he lowers himself, he can feel Sherlock pressing against him.

"Sound like a bad porn film," Sherlock chuckles, and positions himself at John's hole, just a slight pressure and no push.

"My apologies," John simpers. "Please, sir, would you do me the tremendous honor of putting your cock in my arse? I'd be ever so grateful."

Sherlock chuckles and swats John's thigh but pulls John back by the hips. With a sigh and a breath John settles into Sherlock's lap, letting his weight help pull him slowly, inexorably down the length of Sherlock's cock until he's flush against Sherlock's thighs.

"Okay?" John whispers in turn, because suddenly the mood is much more serious.

Sherlock's hands clench tight on John's body, the fine tremors of control shuddering down his arms. "Just, just a minute," Sherlock stutters, and John grasps the headboard and rocks back hard despite the warning, trying to draw him out, make him abandon himself to the moment. Sherlock gasps, cries out, so John does it again, determined. The fog of his drunkenness is lifting which brings back his control, and John may like having Sherlock holding him down but that doesn't mean he's helpless.

"C'mon, harder. More," John demands, and pulls his wrist from Sherlock's grasp to reach back and grip Sherlock's bony hip. "I know you, you demanding bastard. More."

Sherlock growls, pulls out roughly, making John wince with the sharp pain of it. He opens his eyes and tries to look over his shoulder but Sherlock hauls him over onto his back, his bound wrist finally losing skin on the metal cuff.

He's distracted for the moment as he strains to examine his wrist, but in doing so catches Sherlock's gaze. He gasps at the heat, the desire he can see there, something he'd not ever expected in any circumstance. Sherlock smiles at him, then lifts John's thighs and drops a kiss to the inside of his knee before he slides back in, John almost unable to breathe with the overwhelming pain-pleasure of it. The slick heat of Sherlock's cock inside him and the scrape of Sherlock's stubble over his neck makes his desire blaze white hot, and the first stirrings of his orgasm start to curl in his belly.

Sherlock thrusts into him steadily, the pace rhythmic and unwavering until John tips his hips up, lifts one leg over Sherlock's shoulder and fumbles eagerly for his own dick, trying in his half-drunk impatience to match his strokes to Sherlock's. The change in angle must work well for Sherlock, too, because he gasps, drops cadence for a moment and in that instant John's close, close, so close until he's finally there, his orgasm long and spiraling, leaving him dazed and spent as Sherlock continues to rock into him.

Sherlock lifts John's other leg in his eagerness, fucks him relentlessly with hard, fast thrusts that knock his handcuffed wrist against the headboard and leave John gasping as he tries to gain some kind of purchase against the rumpled sheets. He finally is able to brace one hand back against the headboard and the other against Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock shudders, jerks inside him, snapping his hips as tight against John's arse as is possible to be. He sighs, slumps over John's chest a moment before he pulls away and peels off the condom, tossing it toward the bin.

John winces as he tries to prop himself against the pillows. Oh, he's going to pay for this tomorrow. The room is wrecked, his body is wrecked (My God, he has bite marks on his nipples, that's a new one), the handcuff is starting to chafe and there's a red ring around his wrist. Sherlock doesn't look much better when John gets a good look at him as he reaches for the wine bottle and takes a deep drink, body peppered with love bites and particularly livid scratch down his shoulder that John realizes with a mixture of horror and a bit of pride that he must have put there.

"Drink?" Sherlock slurs, flopping down next to where John is starting to drift off despite his discomfort. John eyes the bottle, looks up at Sherlock's drunk and sated expression, and tries really, really hard to say no.

Ah, fuck it, he thinks. After that, he deserves it.

A/N: There once was a scorching hot fanart, which seemed to set off a flurry of inspired ficcery. Aurora Boreali did a little ficlet, and it seems Greywash did a little ficlet, and MirabileLectu went nuts and expanded her little ficlet into a full on, NC-17 romp. And so I, noodling along in my cave and unaware, decided I'd better do one, then came out into the sun to find everyone else already frolicking in the meadow! So now there's a collection.


End file.
